The Gathering Storm
by Turtler
Summary: A simple negotiation between the Humans and the Furlings goes bad in a way no one could expect: SG1 and SGA are sucked through an apparent Stargate error. A plot is in motion that threatens all humanity and far more. And survival is neither cheap nor easy
1. Prolouge: Sweet Dreams

Turtler

Note: my first fic, so anything you could give me; help, constructive criticism, hell, even flames, are welcome.

The Gathering Storm

Disclaimer: PLEASE! I do NOT own either SG-1 or SG-A, I just have these odd ideas I cannot get out of my head. The only ones I own are Fat, Erik, any tech not recognizable, the story, and the "new evil". Zhao was a real man, and he vanished under most amazing circumstances (no body was found, nor those of his guard) at a point in time where fighting between the warlords was at an all time high in his are of China (Sino-Tibet-India area.). His rival, Xu, died due to clear cut fire from Western Allied units, but due to the fact that the state he was traveling in, I have decided that both are to be included in this story. I am sorry if I offend anyone but this setting was good for this pesky plot Bun-Bun.

Content warning: Let's see here, vivid descriptions of death, torture (mental and possibly physical later down the road), and violence, evil; Yep, no 5 year olds allowed.

Ships: S/J and Sh/W

Prologue: Sweet Dreams

"Normal Text with quotes": Jack talking

_Italics: Jack's thoughts_

"_Italics with Quotes" _don't you wish you knew?

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Cold Grey.

As far as man's eye could see. Fog thick as molasses.

Jack O'Neill was not an easily intimidated man. He had endured torture; wars, countless imprisonments, and even death to reach were he was at this point in his life.

However, dressed only in his ceremonial uniform, in the middle of a featureless plain, with murderous winds that felt like they were hacking his skin to shreds.

He was cold. Very cold. Colder than Antarctica. As cold as he could get. Or so his flawed human instinct led him to believe.

Suddenly, out of no where, colder than anything else, was a laugh. One cold and telling the stories of countless cruelties. One more beast than man.

"_Mughaaahaha!"_

Jack began walking. It was as if he had no choice, but to try to find the source of the snarl. His eyes landed on something on the featureless plain. A body. A human body. He accelerated into a run, the only thought his mind allowed him being _could this be one of my own?_ His soldiers were like his family. His fears were unfounded. Lying on the ground was a man of massive build, with dirty blond hair closely cut, in a helmet with a rounded portion on its top, like a dish on his head. He certainly was large enough to be Teal'c's bigger brother, but his clear lack of a pouch and an odd khaki battle uniform pointed to a human. The uniform reminded him of something, he just couldn't remember. And he was dead. There was no denying that. His throat had been stabbed through; leaving a narrow slit that began on one end and ended on the opposite side.

Another malicious laugh echoed across the plains, and Jack broke off investigation to pursue it. He found another body. And another, and another. Stargate Atlantis and their confederates, Sheppard, Weir, McKay, Beckett, Ford, and others; were all lying broken by vicious cuts that tore flesh, but muscle, and broke bone. All dead. "_Atlantis is staffed by some of the most combat hardened troops we have, how could this happen?"_

Jack did not stop as the laughs reached a new pitch. They traveled across the plains, blowing him far more harshly than the wind. _"MUGGhaaahaha!" _ However, the wind was strong, and Jack found his strength yield to it. He was blown from behind by a strong gust and was sent flying several feet forward. Face first; he hit the ground with a dull thud. He turned to his side, and was stunned. Daniel Jackson was a nerdy and often annoying archeologist, but he could also be one of the bravest beings in the Galaxy. And here he was with his neck slashed open, bleeding profusely. Obviously a jugular cut.

Jack's rage grew. He ran as fast as he could, with the laugh getting louder and louder. He would find this man, whoever he was, and **HE WOULD PAY FOR KILLING HIS FRIENDS!** So dominant was this thought that he tripped. On Hammond. And Teal'c. Slashed, stabbed, respectively. Jack hastened to his target, Growing unnerved. Three down. Three left. Jack moved faster than any man on a motorcycle, existing on the hope that somehow, Jonas, Landry, and Sam had survived. That hope dwindled. Landry lay on his back, a cut stab clean though his liver. Not five feet away was Jonas, with his chest punctured. Jack would have stopped to mourn his comrades, who had saved his life more times than he could count, but an icy cackle sounded throughout from the distance.

Jack ran. He ran faster than he ever thought possible for a human. One left. _Please god, if you have mercy, than please show it now!_

But to no avail._  
_

For on that cold plain, God could not find Jack O'Neill.

_God no, God NO!_  
But to no avail.

The fog could not conceal the form of Col. Samantha Carter. Whatever MONSTER did this had left his long sword jutting straight through her, with the ground surrounding her bloody and wet. Her normally crystal blue eyes were now cloudy and dull.

Jack knelt down beside and broke down, crying.  
"God No. This cannot be happening. THIS IS NOT HAPPENING!" Only the winds answered him.

At First.

"**_MUGGHAHAHAHA"_**

Borne of experience, Jack was on his feet and did an about face to confront his tormenter in seconds.

Whoever this man was, he was hidden behind the fog. His outline was visible, however, and through the fog Jack could see that he obviously had an old military uniform of some sort on.

Complete with a sword sheath. Dripping a liquid.

"MURDERER! YOU KILLED THEM!" Jack yelled so that the plain seemed to shake.

His foe merely countered in a steely cold, calm voice _"No, to my ire I have not. Yet. However, that problem will soon be rectified I hope."_

"ARE YOU BLIND? MY ENTIRE COMMAND AND MORE WERE KILLED; MURDERED BY YOU!"

The thing confronting him let out an unearthly chuckle.

"_I Wish. However, this is merely a vision, a herald of things to come."_

"If you come near any of these people I WILL KILL YOU!"

"_You think killing me will change anything? You are wrong. Those who do not die by my hand, shall die by yours."_

"WHY THE HELL WOULD I KILL THOSE I CARE ABOUT?"

_"That does not change the fact that if I do not, than you will"_

Jack could take no more. He was going to kill whoever this was with his bare hands if he had to. With a snarl, he leaped like a tiger at this figure in the fog.

He also landed like bricks on the ungodly ground.

Another chuckle alerted Jack to the fact that this … thing was behind him. An ungodly red glare emanated from where his eyes were, and Jack felt himself get up off the ground.

In the most literal sense possible. He could see the outline of one of his enemy's hands stretched out, with its' palm opened; seeming to will Jack's body to fly off the ground.

"THIS IS A BAD DREAM! IT HAS TO BE!" Jack screamed into the wind.

"_Yes, unfortunately it is. However, you will soon awaken into the nightmare. Remember what I have said now, for soon you shall not live to remember it."_

The being, using whatever means he used to hold the General off the ground, threw Jack back a few dozen feet. He expected to hit the ground, but kept going. Against the background of the wind, he could _feel_, rather than actually hear the murderer laugh, and he could hold it in no longer.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH……."

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"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Brig. General Jack O'Neill woke with a start at his fishing lodge in Minnesota, perfectly safe in his bed. "It's okay, it was just a nightmare! Yes; that's it! IT WAS JUST A NIGHTMARE!" He shouted, attempting to get himself to believe it. However, out of the corner of his ear, he could have sworn he heard something speak in a slate-cold voice.

"_Sweet Dreams."_ Followed by a low chuckle.

He looked around. Nothing. Only him.

And all his fears.

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So, how did everyone like that? Please tell, as I am working on the next chapters. Who was the "murderer" what did he mean? And who was the one corpse we could not Identify? It shall all be answered. Also, this is my first work, so please offer help, as I will accept it AND give you credit.

Turtler


	2. Chapter 1: The Pieces are Set Up

First off, I would like to thank Bookworm37 for the help in getting the prologue up and running in the first place. I owe you that much.

So, how did everyone like the prologue? You wouldn't know anything from the amount of reviews it had (read Zilch). Anyway, the prologue was getting into the mood so to say. This is where the meat starts to come in.

Again, I do not own Feng Zhao, Schumacher, or their men; they were just conveniently there in history, coupled with the utterly bad plan for battle, that I was practically forced to include him in this. If I offended anyone, well, I'm sorry but still, with Zhao and Schumacher, I doubt that many could be offended. Also, as for the "nasty term" you will read, I just have to say Zhao did actually use that term (and believe me, historically he said things a LOT less flattering about the British that would not be suitable for a family-friendly site). Now without further ado:

The Gathering Storm:  
The Pieces are Set Up

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Maj. Gen. Jack O'Neill still had cold sweat every time he remembered that night. Rationalization was never EVER his forte, but somehow he doubted that Daniel or Sam could deal with it better. Even several months later, the vision still haunted him terribly. It had seemed to vanish a month or two after he first encountered it, to the point that he thought it gone. However, starting last week it was coming back with an unholy vengeance that was not going away. New corpses appeared to supplement the old victims: Harry the old weasel, Janet (even though she was, well, dead), and various members of SGC. And most terrible of all, his unseen tormenter telling that one of them would be the one to kill them all.

It drove him crazy, going nights without sleep to try to block out the sinister voice in his head. But even he had his breaking points. And a flight from his office in Washington DC to Colorado Springs was not the most relaxing thing. However, it was an important thing.

Year after year for several years SGC had been searching for members of the "Great Alliance" of the Asgard, the Nox, the Ancients, and the Furlings. Slowly, bit by bit, they had accounted for all of them save the Furlings. However, that was soon to change, as apparently SGA-1 in the Pegasus Galaxy had walked out of a Wraith trap right into an ambush by an unknown species. Fortunately, they had told them that they were the Tau'ri, after which the creatures claimed to be the Furlings. Naturally, there was pushing for an alliance by the SGC, but the Furlings were wary. They had heard about SG-1 through god-knows-what, and they wanted to see them at the signing to "make sure." Apparently, they also demanded a Jack O'Neill be present as well. Apparently the Galactic grapevine had treated him and his exploits well.

And THAT was why he was on a Northwest Airlines flight from DC to Colorado Springs. In a way there was a slight sense of nostalgia; he was coming back to one of the only two places he felt home, and with the latest rash of nightmares at DC and his cabin in Minnesota, the one place he could feel safe, and thus he likely would have went back to visit anyway had he not been ordered back.

It also meant seeing Sam again. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he began to feel queasy; he had fought it, and was largely successful for about six years of trying to convince himself that he was NOT interested in his 2IC in **THAT** way. It was a fight he lost. However, he also had very little doubt in his mind that she did not return his love in THAT way. For starters, he was several years her senior, and second, he was her CO, and as such, it was sternly forbidden. And thirdly, he doubted that either of them wanted to loose the other as a friend, as over the years they had become best friends, and taking it to the next level but failing could only ruin what they had worked so hard to build up.

No, he did not want to risk the status quo with a move that would likely only sink the boat.

It was several hours into the flight and Jack could not help but feel a growing sense of unease. He was not one to believe that Osama Bin Laden had managed to smuggle himself and 2,000 tons of explosives onto the plane he was on, and he had been in the air long enough to be comfortable to an extent with the way planes handled. No. This was not about the plane he was on. This was about the growing sense of dread he had about the future. What could it hold? How would he deal with it?

Jack needed to collect his nerve. He excused himself to the restroom, less for need to go and more to sort things out in his head.

It apparently was he first and (Jack believed) last time in the history of public aviation that there was no line for the restroom, and so Jack merely slipped into one of the stalls and locked the door.

He splashed cold water on his face to clear his mind, and then he looked up.

The twin strains of age and the military were getting to him, slowly eating away at him. He was in amazingly good shape, but he still noticed several new scars on his skin, and a look of world-weariness. He had a lot on his mind, and he was plagued by a nameless, shapeless dark fear that hung over his thoughts for the future like thick clouds before a storm. What path would he take down the road? He was at the very least glad for the mission to the Furlings, as that at least allowed him a brief exoneration from the road ahead.

Suddenly, and without warning, the plane began to rock back and forth, and Jack was caught up in the worst of it.

He fought to remain standing, but a sudden thrust shattered his resistance. He remembered a split second of looking at the wall before all faded to black.

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China was not a hospitable place in this day and age. Feng Zhao, of all people understood that much. From the old days of Western dominance to the Japanese invasions to the current civil war and constant pressure form the Western Allies in India to be smashed apart, one had to be strong to survive. Thankfully, he was not in existence during the first, and due to his notorious neighbor and rival, he was spared the wrath of the Japanese and of the CCP and KMT, who simply steered clear of his little corner of China near the borders with Tibet and British India.

The dammed redcoated Tommies and their allies were a different matter altogether. The British were determined to solidify their authority over the lawless border region, and between their veteran, well armed soldiers, their superior technology, and the foreign aid and lack of Nationalist or Communist forces, they were doing quite well. Militiamen and mercenaries armed with outdated weapons and pathetic armor support were proving time and again to be no match for elite teams like SAS and the Gurkhas armed with the latest weapons, training, and tactics with extensive Air and armor support.

Even so, the Western Allies were not who he feared most. That position was reserved for the so-called "hermit of the mountain."

And thus, when he was jostled awake in the dead of night on July 18th 1946 by one of his men saying "Commander, wake up, wake up" in German, he was slow to wake, but when the Austrian mercenary said "It's _HIM_. He is using the telegraph wire in the compound right NOW." The 45 year old warlord and heavy sleeper bolted from his bed and yelled at the Austrian in German whether he was sure. The Austrian replied that the interloper had addressed himself as such and they had no reason to suspect otherwise. "**ORDER THE MEN TO FORM A PERIMITER AROUND THE AREA AND SHOOT HIM IF HE TRIES TO ESCAPE**!" The words poured out of Zhao's mouth like water through a broken dam.

It was as if several thousand volts had been pumped into his blood, he ran out of his little hut and found his motley crew of Chinese, Tibetan, British, Japanese. Russian, and German mercenaries stirring from their sleep and being bullied into a perimeter.

His head became filled with excitement, and the adrenaline pumped into his veins like one pumps water into a well. "**ORDER THE MEN TO HOLD THE PERIMITER AND TO WAIT FOR HIM TO COME TO US!**" He shouted in Chinese, partially to his men, and partially to himself to make sure this was not some wonderful dream. The Hours passed like seconds in his great excitement. However, it was not until dawn that one of the Russians came up to him and told him that _he_ had stopped using the telegram. Zhao could not wait a second more. "FORWARD AND SLAY HIM ON SIGHT!"

Every second of the slow and hidden advance tortured Zhao horribly, as the movement through the tall grass without being seen was dead slow, and he could not wait to sink his bayonet into the throat of this man, if he really was HIM.

He and his men stormed the telegraph office, he felt his heart sink.

The only ones in the office were his own men, two KMT exiles in their slightly modified uniforms, and the Tibetan operator. All hacked with a long sword in various grisly ways.

"WHO LET HIM ESCAPE?" Zhao bellowed to the assembled men.

"Herr Commandant" stammered Günter Schumacher, the second most powerful man in the camp next to Zhao himself "We formed a tight ring around the area, there is no way he could have escaped without one of the guards spotting him" but then the German contradicted himself and said " But no one saw anything and all the men are accounted for."

The mercs and militia stepped back, as Zhao was visibly furious. However, than Zhao noticed several papers on the desk near the telegraph.

He walked past his tired and scared men and picked them up.

"My god" was all he could say in his native Chinese. Than he composed himself and said "Günter, come look at these." The German hurried quickly over to Zhao.

"Look." Zhao passed the book over to the ex-Wermacht officer. "Do you realize what these are?" Zhao said in a hushed tone.

Günter looked at the Union Jack on the cover and uttered "Mien Gott, these are British Army plans!"

"Yes, and look here." Zhao motioned over to a map on the table. Once unfolded, it showed a layout of the British Army encampment. "Look here" Zhao said, pointing to the Northwestern flank of the base. A smirk played across his face "Our British friends have made a bad mistake, and I intend to exploit it!" Zhao exclaimed boldly. It was accompanied by arrows that were clearly drawn on with the inscription _07/27/46_ on it. "That bastard is preparing to defeat the British and seize their equipment for himself! But he is not ready! He will need over a week to prepare!" Zhao turned to his aide. "What is the status of our force?"

"Our men are rested and well supplied for the current circumstances. We need a day or two to prepare, but if we move quickly enough we should be able to hit them before the Westerners realize their error."

Zhao's quarry had eluded him, but it had given him a golden opportunity to astronomically increase his strength in the region and to finally drive the Englishmen out.

Or so it would appear.

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"Sir, are you alright?"

Jack O'Neill stirred on the floor of the bathroom, apparently having been knocked cold from the impact. Jack hastened to his feet and exited, firing apologies and assurances like he was firing a gun blindly from around the corner. He managed to make it to his seat with relatively minimal hassle given the situation, and he sat down and thought about what he had "seen" when he had been out. A batch of armed men hunting down someone, a someone who had left behind vital intelligence.

A someone who had seemingly disappeared into thin air.

Jack shuddered as though wracked by a freezing wind, remembering the encounter that had haunted his dreams for months.

Jack slowly eased into his seat and buckled back up again.

Completely unaware that across the void of space and time, someone was watching.

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_' The arrogant fool had taken the bait! The plans were proceeding smoothly. Zhao would run into battle expecting an easy victory.'_ A smirk grazed the lips of the beast in humanoid form who was recollecting the status of his plot. _'And with him out of the way, there is only the Westerners and Xu to deal with. No, there was someone else to remove. SGC._ ' The thing's smirk widened and sharpened. ' _But little do they know what they are getting into. And then it is a matter of waiting until the final part clicked into place.' _The being licked its lips and smiled. _'The pieces are in place. It is time for the game to begin._' The creature widened the smile, and eerie red light danced along its eyes. '_SOON THE TIME WILL COME!'_

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So, how did you like the new chapter? PLEASE REVIEW! I AM BEGGING YOU! PLEASE!-Turtler


	3. Chapter 2: Colorado Springs

Again, I wish to thank Bookworm37 for help getting me started on submitting these stories, and I would like to thank my first reviewers: Rignach and Natters, for giving me my first feedback. I much appreciated it, but as for the complaint about not being able to make heads or tails of it, DAH-linkz, that was intentional I do not want to merely make a wham-bam- thank-you-mam novel. At least not yet. I want you to puzzle over who the threat is, why is it doing this, and then I want you to review with feedback. All will be explained in due time, but this is a long book I am planning, and an even longer series, so it will take a while.

Again, I do not own SGA, SG-1, SGC, anything you can recognize related to the franchise, and various things that you cannot. I only own a few things here and there, and the plotline. I do not own most of the warlords you hear about (damn, are they and their cronies going to get as much writing in the disclaimers as they do in the story? More?) or their flags/battle plans unless I state so otherwise. And I only own a few characters

Also, I request a beta. My previous chapters were riddled with embarrassing misspells, and anyone who helps with this will be dutifully credited.

Anywho, without further ado:

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Chp 2: Colorado

After what seemed to Jack an eternity plus a few minutes, the plane FINALLY started to go down slowly. As the pilot was going through "the usual routine" Jack looked through the window to see the now tiny Colorado Springs Municipal Airport slowly swell in size as the plane lazily continued its descent. Jack hardly even shifted under the movement of going down, as he was so accustomed to the nuances of planes of all sizes.

If only he could so easily shake his fear of the future, and of his own feelings about Sam.

He hardly had to step off the plane and exit through the main entrance in the usual chaos to notice the "incognito" and "discreet" plain clothes officers with the limo sent to pick him up. Honestly, who were they trying to fool? Even if you forgot the fact that they had brought uniformed soldiers to escort him in, and you furthermore forgot that the officers themselves obviously had enough firepower to re-sink the Titanic judging from the obvious bulges underneath the cloths, the manner they carried themselves with would alert anyone who actually paid attention enough, military or no, to the fact that they could hardly be anything BUT incognito MPs.

Jack walked over to the limo, smirking, and said "Hello gentlemen, I take it you lot are the people here to escort me back to the 'ountain. Who the HELL did you think you were fooling with the inconsistent shoddy disguise gig anyway?"

able to contain their surprise and one of them, who looked to be in charge, asked "How did you know that, sir?"

Apparently, the detail was surprised that _anyone_ could see through their _through and unremarkable_ disguises, and apparently they were surprised that instead of finding their charge, their charge had found them. Nevertheless, they were. Somehow.

Jack simply laughed and said "You lot are new to this, right? Most likely transferred from a frontline unit?"

Apparently, the guard unit believed he was Sherlock friggnin' Holmes for that deduction, and their leader again asked "Yes, but again, how did you know these this? Was it something with the cloths or the …."

Jack cut him off. "No, it is just that here are a few helpful pointers to remember: the purpose of a unit discreetly deployed in civilian cloths is; and I know this will come as a shock to you; to be _Discreet_! No uniforms, loose some of the guns; simple but effective is the rule, and FOR PETE'S SAKE! WHY THE HECK WERE YOU GOING AROUND ACTING LIKE YOU WERE! BLEND IN!"

"Uh, okay then." Said the leader still a little bit unnerved by the General's "_Deductive Powers_," "But now can we actually get moving?"

"Yeahsureyoubetcha." Was the response.

The guards raised their eyebrows and/or put on a look of surprise and confusion, then followed Jack into the car as he got in the back.

The ride was uneventful and relaxing, with any of his attempts to start a conversation about anything being shot down quickly and ruthlessly by the agents. Though he couldn't say he was really disappointed. For the first time in months, Jack felt well rested, and _at peace_, a feeling that was getting rarer and rarer for him to find as each day passed. However, it only took a dozen words, spoken so that he could barely make them out himself, to shatter his tranquility.

"_The time is coming, Jack O'Neill. Soon you shall meet your fate."_

"Who said that?"

"Sir, no one has said anything."

Jack slumped back in his seat. His surface was a mask of calm, but inside, he was quaking. _Who is this, why must I endure this hell every night? Why must I suffer? How can this be happening in Colorado Springs?_

Said out loud, even he would have thought them stupid concerns. However, for a man who had been tormented for months on end by horrific visions of death, torture, and murder invading his dreams, this was no laughing matter.

He acknowledged rather than saw the car moving through the heavily fortified checkpoints of Cheyenne Mountain, the US's most secret base on Earth, through the tinted windows of the limo. When the car finally ground to a halt, he briefly said goodbye to the agents ("Hey, cheer up, it takes skill to be so obvious while undercover.") and got out and began walking almost like a machine, too wrapped up his own thoughts to pay more than minimal attention to the rest of the world.

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In truth, she didn't know what to think.

On one hand, it would be like something of a reunion, with the old team finally getting back together.

On the other, she was not really sure she was prepared to see him again.

Yes , Samantha Carter, Colonel in the USAF, who could kick arse and take names in a fight, solve an impossible mathematical problem, save the world, and in her spare time fight a wannabe Genghis Khan in the duel ring just to prove a point, was afraid of meeting her Commanding Officer and best friend again.

_How would she react? Would she be able to keep the cover up? Was she still convincing enough to fool him? _

"Dammit!"

"Hey Carter, this is an Air Force base, not a Navy Port last I checked."

Sam spun around to find Jack O'Neill in his civvies with one suitcase rolling along behind him.

"Sir, long time no see!"

To anyone else, it seemed as through the 'Carter' and the 'Sir' were simple ways of an inferior officer addressing her superior officer, or vice versa. However, with the two of them, it was more special, like a beloved nickname. Strange, but true.

He gave her the infamous Jack-smile that was notorious around the base. "It certainly has been a while."

"I'll go get into my uniform. So, when are we planning on going to Atlantis?"

"Within the hour."

"Well than, I guess I better get going."

Now alone, Sam had time to think about everything. Did she do anything suspicious, anything revealing? Damn. In the past he had been he commanding officer and her best friend, and while it was at that level, it was simplistic. But then her feelings had crossed a line they were never supposed to cross.

Age, regulations, troubled pasts, personal demons; all of these things and more barred the path, and most intimidating of all was the fact that he likely saw her as a friend and comrade-in-arms. Nothing less. But at the same time nothing more and they counterbalanced the times he showed proof that he may think of her in **THAT **way.. And it agonized her, so she played the part, and waited for a sign.

In about a quarter of an hour Jack had changed into his field uniform and had headed to the gate room. Filling the are were the usual suspects: Sam, Daniel, Teal'c, and Landry. And one unusual one. Jack did a double take And then another one. And another. He was still there.

Jack's mouth hit the floor. He had seen that face many times before, but not like this. "I thought you retired sir!"

Standing with them was Gen. George Hammond, the original commander of SGC. And what was more was that instead of the usual white commander uniform he wore while he was in charge of the base, he was wearing a field uniform, and armed to the teeth at that.

"I did. It's just that I decided to do an encore." The commanding voice of the Texan said. "They let me on as a 'Civilian Advisor;' which in other words means I am allowed to 'advise the Stargate Teams in their day to day operations.'"

"Which, when translated from Bureaucratic gobbledegook means that you get to horn in on some of the action too." Jack summarized.

Hammond simply shrugged. "I can't let you lot have all the fun, now can I? And I'm not military anymore, so you can stop calling me sir."

"Ok than, **SIR**."

Any further debate was obscured by the usual dialing and chevron count of the gate.

Then the empty frame of the Stargate was filled with blue light, and the six figures stepped through it

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Progress had been slow, as to avoid Western Allied scouts, the hated British Long Range Patrols, and of course the feared Gurkhas; Zhao's men had to use the jungle as their road, occasionally getting a break and finding a trail unoccupied. Mostly, however, they had to move across the mud and were forced to deal with all the mechanical breakdowns and delays that came with it. It was already getting dark by the 21st mile mark, though they had only managed to advance 5 miles towards the Allied bivouac.

Günter was on the road checking the status of a few Type 89 Yi-Go Japanese tanks that had been "appropriated" from the Empire's soldiers in the Spring of 1942. Right now they were stalling like hell, and seriously jeopardizing the advance. The digging crew had displaced about 8 feet of mud, but save one, the tanks were still stuck.

"Gunter!" That could only be one person and one person only.

"Gunter, how is progress on the tanks coming?" Zhao asked.

"Not very fast. The men are working hard but there is still a lot of muck to dig through."

"Why not just leave them there?"

"There is the problem. The panzers have your flag painted on them in several places." Referring to Zhao's Horizontal dual color of yellow on the left and black on the right with the Chinese characters for power painted on the middle painted an inverted color than the one it was on. "One panzer; and the English shrug it off. Two panzers, maybe. Three panzers, and they will get suspicious. BUT EIGHT PANZERS! That would all but tell the Tommies that we are moving en-force. And if they discover where we are headed, than they can reinforce their…."

Günter cut himself off, as in the pitch black, he could have sworn he saw a red-orange burst of light in the trees. But then it was gone.

"Reinforce their flank?"

Günter merely nodded vigorously. "It's just that I thought I saw something."

"You look pale. The trip must be taking its toll on you. We are setting up camp in the shadow of a large tree. The British are heading back to their base, so there is no use standing guard here. Come with me, and we'll settle in for the night."

The two walked along the muddy ground.

"Now Günter, I need some advice on a load issue. A tree crashed and destroyed one of our trucks, thus leaving a Bofors 40mm gun and a Flak

36mm gun in the mud. We can only take one of them, and so I need you to advis….."

Günter stopped paying attention, as in a tree ahead he saw two red-orange lights silently overhead.

His heart was beating rapidly. So the stories were true… He pointed a finger at the trees.

"THERE THEY ARE! I KNOW THEY ARE THERE! **KOMMANDANT HE IS WATCHING US**!"

"GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF GUNTHER! HE MAY BE POWERFUL BUT YOU ARE JUST BEING IRRATIONAL! YOU WERE A SOLDIER OF THE WEHRMACHT! And you believe little local tales about him like they are the unabridged truth! Now I AM a local, and those tall tales are nothing more than ghost stories. See!"

Zhao waved his hand at the pitch-black tree line. "There is nothing there! You are tired and you are seeing things! You need rest!"

"Yes, I guess I am. Rest would do me well."

The two men walked on, not even looking back once.

If they had looked back, they would have seen two red-orange lights silently gliding across the trees on the pitch black night.

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How did you like it? Please review! And not to worry, I wish I could simply dive into the meat of the story too, but the buildup is necessary to the story. The buildup to the main plot is nearly finished, so please bear with me! Also, this IS one of the lighter and fluffier chapters! The storyline will get much darker, so if you were looking for sugary fluff, than you picked the wrong story! I will toss in some fluff here and there, but ultimately it will be a dark story. I will be introducing a major character in the next 3-5 chapters. Enjoy.

-Turtler


	4. Chapter 3: The Reunion

Chapter 3: The Reunion

"Incoming Wormhole!"

"IDC Sig?"

"SGC, Ma'am"

"Get the shield down."

"Yes Ma'am."

Thousands of Light-years and a galaxy away, the Stargate in Atlantis exploded in that familiar blue burst, which receded as quickly as it had burst, leaving six figures standing in the gate room. Or more accurately, six more figures were freezing in the gate room, for the six had not even gotten fully over the familiar cold, damp feeling of going through the gate or from the momentary blindness from the usual light to notice the great number of people who had crowded the gate room.

Due to the fact that visitations from Earth were few and far between, and the fact that these were especially dignified (some would say legendary) guests; there had been a great anticipation to meet the "great" SG-1. The rest of the city that had been explored had been garrisoned with a skeleton staff (there was, after all, no need to hand the city on a silver platter should the Wraith decide to pay a "surprise visit.") However, for all the crowded space in the room, there was stark, sheer silence as the gate deactivated.

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Sam was not pleased. Though that was an understatement. Sam was _pissed_! She had barely gotten around the whole Felger thing, which had finally been laid to rest when he (FINALLY) realized that his assistant Chloe loved and that he loved her. She was genuinely happy, make no mistake, but that was sweetened by the fact that it meant one less person who had a crush on her. You would think the universe would be kind enough to allow her a chance to soak in and enjoy that triumph, BUT NO.

She knew that she was the heartthrob for many of men (and, she suspected, some of the women) on base; but at the top of that list lay two names, names she grew to dread (or at least groan at): Rodney McKay and Jay Felger. She though she could get a brief respite, with the latter now in a committed relationship, and the former safely in another galaxy. However, due to the necessity of finding the Furlings and getting an alliance or at least some sort of agreement, she was forced to deal with the former just when she was getting ready to celebrate after the latter was removed.

However, no use crying over spilt milk. Now how to go about surviving.

She was brought out of her stupor by the fact that a familiar face was approaching them from the crowd.

She had worked with Elizabeth Weir previously, during the crisis with the Lost City, and she had changed quite a bit but at the same time had not really changed much at all. She was still the brown-haired career diplomat-scientist she had been before, but since taking control of Atlantis, she seemed to have become more confident, more sure of herself, with a healthy grasp for command.

However, it did not escape Sam's grasp that her walk was filled with uncertainty, that she was not as confident as she portrayed herself to be. And Sam could not blame her. It was always more than a little bit unnerving working on the 'gate, and she was on Planet Earth, not another galaxy.

After proceeding a few steps, Elizabeth said "Generals, Colonel, Dr. Jackson, everyone; how was the trip?"

"Not bad enough to require surgery. Yet." Quipped a very certain (and very attractive) Colon-_General_.

To this, Elizabeth merely nodded, and led the way through the crowd. The usual greetings, exchanges, and talks were exchanged with the Athosians, the staff, and the scientists; until they had eventually forced their way through the crowd of people, and reached the hall.

Strangely enough, Rodney was acting rather…_controlled._ Normally that would be a good sign. But this was Rodney, and knowing the usually-hyper Canuck, that was thus not likely a good thing.

Oh well, only way to find out what he was planning was to keep an eye peeled and wait.

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The mass of humanity had largely dispersed in their various directions, though even when he was submersed in his own musings, he could not fail to note the number of people who had taken a "wrong turn" into his quarters. However, he was largely left alone to be engaged in his thoughts, and all the misery that accompanied them.

However, he was called out to eat, and since not doing so would attract some worry and suspicion, and he needed nor wanted either. So he went, and would try to keep as low profile as humanely possible.

And he succeeded to an extent, figuratively huddled in an equally figurative corner, eating as quickly and quietly as possible, trying not to draw attention to himself.

He succeeded for a while, but than was shoved from his solitude by a simple, inoffensive, polite sentence.

"So, General O'Neill, it is an honor to meet you at last. We have heard so much about you."

The comment, from the Athosian leader, Teyla; shook Jack out of his thoughts, and he came to the unpleasant realization that he could no longer NOT draw attention to himself, feeling the eyes of a good deal of the room on him.

"Yes, well thank you… Teyla, wasn't it?" he said, hoping that he was not being too obvious.

"Yes, you said it right. However, we were wondering why you have been so quiet. Surely someone of your standing has something to tell us?"

"What is there to tell? Anyway, I'm Stuffed, 'Night."

He didn't mean to be rude, but he didn't want to be disturbed, so he made his way back to his bunk.

"Colonel Carter, is General O'Neill always this reserved?" The Athosian asked.

"No, this is not usual for Jack." Sam attempted to remain a calm appearance. In reality, she was afraid. Deeply afraid. Jack was not his lively, joking self, and she worried. Something must be wrong. Terribly wrong.

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Somewhere, in the sprawling Atlantean cityscape, in one of the countless shadows of one of the endless corridors in one of the forgotten, derelict levels that honeycombed Atlantis; one creature, lying in wait, added his thoughts:

_'There is. At least from his perspective. And his Adjutant, however she may worry, has no proof, and is unable to reach O'Neill to find out what is wrong.. Thus is the curse of this Tauri emotion "Love;'_

'_The unfortunate General has obviously not told anyone, and will hardly even admit it to himself.'_

Though he did not admit it aloud, it was almost as bad an insult as the one the locals had pulled back near base called him the name of a glossy, dull Tauri cloth.

_'Ack. Enough about the locals, they can be dealt with at my leisure. For now, I must focus on the now.'_

_ 'They are all gathered **HERE**. IN ONE SPOT! It was almost too good to be believable, and with the relapse coming into play soon, he could bag all the Ymalandyrs with but one stone if he was lucky. If not, there was always the backup plan…'._

_'But one musn't get ahead of oneself. The first thing was to give his dear "friend" Jack a message, and than get the mousetrap ready. And even should that one fail, there was more than enough to try again. And again. And again and again. He had waited literally eras for this. He could wait a little bit more.'_

The beast in humanoid form, having finished his thoughts, stepped out of one of the countless shadows in one of the endless corridors of the city's numberless abandoned levels, his mind poised, and his eyes glinting with fiery red, like a predator on the hunt.

There was work to be done.

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OK than, how can you be on site for nearly a whole year and still be a noob? Answer: For reasons beyond your control. I am sorry to have been gone so long, but my computer acted up, and three keyboards, one mouse, several reboots, and dozens of consultations, I have finally gotten it working again!

PLEASE REVIEW! I am also still looking for a beta, but PLEASE REVIEW! I BEG OF YOU!


	5. Chapter 4: The Night

Chapter 4: The Night

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As the night in Atlantis wore on, the dining hall slowly but steadily cleared, and eventually the last few had to succumb to the need for sleep and the fact that there was nothing left to really do.

As Sam joined the trickle of humanity (and Athosianty) out of the mess hall, and she could already feel the urge to sleep starting to get the upper hand in her battle with it. However, she was not nearly tired enough to not remember Jack's behavior at dinner, Jack, the humorous, lovable joker and life of the party and a sense of humor that was 50+-going-on-fourteen; was in an obscure corner of the room and had not said two dozen words since the arrival through the gate.

She knew he hated the quote, "Legalized theft of my tax dollars" that were the formal, dressy, special "events" thrown by the "lazy, corrupt, self-serving, idiotic Bureaucrats who would be of more use on the target range."

At the same time, however, in spite of her long knowledge of his "viewpoints" on the black tie events, she had to admit that she had to strain her definition of black-tie to include this. This was not something conducted by the underworked, overpaid, sleazy suits that filed in looking for a way to profit off it some way or another.

However skilled Dr. Elizabeth Weir might be at fighting the irrational, unpredictable rapids and negotiating her way through the winding tributaries and falls of the mighty, unmerciful Red Tape River of Emptysuitonia, Sam knew her enough to know that she was a breed apart from the cynical bureaucrats that she herself all-to-often encountered. She also preferred to talk English as opposed to realpolitik, and was actually not that bad if you got to know her.

And for the rest of the Atlantis staff, they were normal people not unlike Jack had interacted willingly with before. Scientists, soldiers, some friendly aliens; people her CO actually could level with and talk on the same level as.

And yet, not one single word to anyone unless absolutely necessary. And not only with the Atlantis staff, but amongst themselves either.

And if the other things peaked her worry, it was _that_ fact that chilled her. She knew he was not the easiest person to get to know, but she knew he was easy to talk to.

She barely paid attention to her surroundings, and hardly noticed that she had arrived at her quarters. As she got into bed, she thought '_It's probably nothing special, he is after all not used to gating anymore, and the negotiations were not exactly a walk in the park. That has got to be it. Right?'_ while simultaneously trying to ignore what she could feel in the pit of her stomach.

The feeling that something was terribly wrong.

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Jack, on the other hand, was trying to do whatever it took to _avoid_ falling asleep.

He tried pretty much everything he could think of, and as they failed one by one, he tried pacing, than twiddling his thumbs, and than dusting off a long-unused memory and began trying to recite the entire content of Cease's _Commentaries from the Gallic War_ from memory.

He got to "All Gaul is divided into thr-"

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Jack enjoyed a dreamless sleep; a rare luxury even in his "normal" schedule, which nowadays was even rarer.

However, he first came to return to conciseness when he felt something on his right hand. Something _liquid_. He bolted up with a start, and looked at the offending hand, and immediately wished he did not. The familiar red liquid that could only be one thing: _blood_. His heart beat faster, as he put his hand down; he realized an even more gristly sight.

Bodies. Piles of them, all around him. Broken, mutilated, butchered; the mere sight of them made him physically sick, as anywhere he looked there were more, in a circle with him in the middle. And it was not only that which made him disgusted, but he did not have to look long to ID who they were. The first one he noticed was the long-deceased CMO and petite spitfire on base, Janet Frasier, whose throat had practically been torn apart. Than came Daniel, whose jaw had come within a hair of being severed from his face entirely. And than, for a reason he himself did not know, he looked over his shoulder, and immediately wished he had not.

Behind him lay even more cadavers. Some he knew, some he did not, and more that he knew by heart. It made him physically ill.

On the top of the macabre pile, the familiar brown hair and newly-cracked glasses betrayed the identity of a near and dear archeologist, whose hands were not eagerly fiddling with some artifact or another, but were lying limp by his side, lifeless. He did not have to look long to find Teal'c, Hammond, McKay, Weir, Sheppard, and the others, as well as innumerable scientists, guards, MPs, people whose names he did not even know but whom he had seen numerous times.

But amidst the horrifying and nauseating sea of plainclothes and uniformed corpses, he noticed a strange discoloration in the piles of cadavers. Even not understanding himself how he could focus on such a thing in the middle of such gristly slaughter, he could honestly not know. All he did know, even when standing knee-deep in the blood and muck of his dead allies, friends, and comrades, he was driven by an unexplainable urge.

When he arrived, he found the discoloration was khaki. In a bloody mangled mess, surrounded by the lifeless shells of what once were MP Officers, was a familiar face. The tall, dead blond soldier in the khaki battle uniform that he first saw at the start of this nightmarish odyssey. Or at least what had once been khaki, as the sheer quantity of blood rendered it a sickening shade of red.

However, in spite of the gore, Jack was driven on. This was the unknown. The one person who he could not pin down at all in his previous hellish nights, and so he tried to ID whoever this mysterious corpse was.

He noticed, while holding back his vomit, to notice that even when soaked in blood, there was no mistaking the fact that this person had HAD fair skin, Dirty blond hair, and blue eyes that were now fogged over in the postmortem. However, he was looking for the ID of the uniform, and looked it over, ignoring the bloody mess on his hands, when he saw a faint glimpse of blue, white, and red on the dull brown helmet. He turned the helmet to the left, and the limp head merely yielded. However, before he could investigate the side, a familiar and unwelcome sound that chilled his bones to the marrow echoed across the blood-drenched ground.

_"MUHAHAHA!_" Jack heard as he felt his body be ripped off the ground and hurled back, into the center of the circle of corpses, his pants, face, hair, shirt, everything covered in the sickly red and black plasma.

He tried to face his foe, but something kept him pinned to the ground. He could not move his body or his head. However, he heard the sound of boots on the bloodied ground, and soon the shadow of what appeared to be a man had fallen on him from the rear of his head, and Jack came to the startling conclusion.

That MONSTER was standing over him, and he could not move. He was at the "mercy" of whatever this creature decided to do.

_"Jack, O'Neill,_-The all too familiar and horrifically cold voice began-_ you are wondering as to why I am here again. I am here to quite simply say that I your time is coming to a close. Do not bother trying to speak, as you will find that a little.. shall we say, difficult?"_

At that sentence, Jack tried to scream, but nothing happened. His lips would not budge, and he could tell that he was making no sound nonetheless.

_"You are confused, scared, and more than a little—" _He could practically _feel_ the sinister smirk that his nemesis was now wearing; _"afraid. You are wondering what the future holds, and are also looking over your back at every possible chance, unsure of where the attack will come and when. And no, you cannot move, or strangle me, or tear me limb from limb. Yet._

And with that, Jack's brain seized up similarly to the rest of his body; but only out of shock 'how did he know those exact details' was racing through his head, as yet another gallon of ice seemed to make a home in his chest

"_Not like that would change anything… but I digress. And as for how I knew those exact details, as you called them; to answer you, you are not a stupid man, Jack O'Neill, no matter how much you may attempt to convince others that you are. I believe that you can figure that out for yourself."_

With that, the only thought on Jack's mind was a highly horrifying and unpleasant one: 'Can he read my-'

His thoughts were cut off by a maniacal cackle from his unseen tormentor, followed by a continuation;

"_Yes, I can. Was that so hard? But no matter, but hear this an_d_ know this. No matter what sarcasm, or anger, or actions you pull, the end result will hardly change, for the deed shall be done either by my hand or yours. And you are currently wondering when you will get a chance to rip my liver out? Well, let me tell you this much: It will be far sooner than you expect."_

And with that finalization, Jack saw the dark silhouette that fell over him move one of its' hands, and suddenly Jack's world was spinning. Around and around and around again, faster and faster with each rotation, like he was in Hell's version of a shuttle test, the bloody surroundings having melted together into a disgusting red blur long ago, and the only thing he could hear was a steady, unseen, constant malicious laugh. _"Muahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg_gggggggg-"

Jack felt like his body was literally going to fly apart, with his legs and arms seeming on the verge of coming out of their sockets, and even through this hell, he tried again and again to say something, to damn his oppressor, to damn the slaughter, to curse the gods, to curse stargate, to curse himself, and sometimes only to yell, but he could hear no sound aside from the never-ending laugh that filtered through his ears. And finally, when he was on the verge of either unconsciousness or death, he no longer cared which, he tried one last time and………

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"YEEEEEEEAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!"

Jack let out at last, and seemed to fall to earth with a solid thud. His head shot up automatically, to his own surprise. However, even as he heard his own tortured scream echo on the walls of the ancient city at a volume that made him wince, Jack felt the thick liquid on himself and his cloths.

He grasped part of his shirt in fright, but when he looked at it, he identified not deep red blood, but his own cold sweat. He than lay back down on his cot and than closed his eyes. _'It was all another dream. God, I hate it.'_

And for some time, maybe a minute, maybe two, maybe half an hour, he lay there with his eyes closed, trying to regain his sleep.

Than he heard a noise.

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So, How am I doing? Please Review!


	6. Chapter 5: A Sign of Things to Come

Chapter 5: A Sign of Things to Come

_Claacckk_

Jack, on his heightened senses, could not fail to identify the sound of a pipe hitting the floor. Far too close for him to be comfortable. He, still sweating profusely, reached over his right shoulder looking for his pistol.

_Clackacakl_

Jack's blood ran cold, as the rate of repetition of noise heightened, getting closer and closer. His alarm heightened when his hand failed to feel the reassuring solidness of the metal pistol, trying to reach it blindly with the one hand, not wanting to take his eyes off the doorway for some reason.

_CLACKLACKLACKLACKLACK_

Jack was firmly horrified, as if he had to hazard a guess, the commotion was on the hallway leading to his own, and most alarmingly of all, IT WAS GETTING CLOSER.

He was desperate, and he managed to pry his eyes away long enough to get up, move to the desk he had kept his belongings on.

_**CLACKCLACKCLAKCLACKCLACKLACKALCK **_

Jack's heart beat furiously in his chest, searching, overturning books, equipment, everything, the only sound he could hear save for his furiously heavy breathing was the ever present sound of the pipes, rapidly falling and increasingly getting louder.

As the noise neared a crescendo, Jack scattered his copy of the Anabasis to the ground, and there, even in the faint light of the room, a slight metallic glint caught his eye.

As the sound became deafeningly loud, Jack grabbed the gun by the butt, put his hands on the trigger, and turned around.

But Not fast enough.

As Jack turned himself back towards the doorway, he saw out of the corner of his eye for a flicker of a second, and for a brief movement in time as he

was turning, he could have sworn he had seen something. But as he completed his turn, whatever it was had gone.

Sheer, utter quiet filtered through the room. But not for long.

Jack could literally _feel_ his ears perk by just a bit to hear the sound that was now echoing down the corridor. And that sound was the slow groan of bending steel. And that was followed by a sharp snap, and the hollow thwack of it hitting the ground. And this sound, every so slowly, began working away.

He knew that he probably, with the sound-and whatever was making it- moving away, he could probably concealed himself somewhere in his quarters, and; with himself now armed, he could set up a line of fire on the doorway. However, for a reason he himself could not explain, he put his gun into firing position, and began to move slowly and quietly towards the door. Halting just before the door, he than turned his body into the hallway towards the noise.

That was when he saw something. Amidst the gloom, a flicker of grey could be seen, rounding the corner just as Jack turned into the hallway.

Jack knew almost subconsciously that this would not be the smartest thing he had done by far, but still began to inch through the hallway as quietly as possible, following the now-resumed sickening noise of cracking metal. However, after what seemed like a year, he rounded the corner, and found a familiar spectacle: a grey---- cloak? For something similar whipped across the corner, and, as he continued to inch slowly -barely taking note of the shattered pipes that littered the ground- he heard the sound ahead of him speed up, and as it got more and more intense, it also became more distant. And that could only mean one thing.

He had been found out, and the interloper was running.

So Jack picked up the pace. Throwing caution to the wind, he started to run after the sounds echoing through the halls. However, time and again he was disappointed to see that as he rounded a new hallway as a grey piece of cloth could be seen rounding the next corridor. The sound was becoming deafeningly loud, becoming slightly louder or softer depending on his progress. He ran, faster and faster, trying to keep up with his quarry. But in spite of that, the foe always seemed to be one step ahead of him, in spite of how much he picked up the pace.

Jack lost all sense of time. It could have been minutes, hours, DAYS that he was chasing this _thing_ through the uncharted, abandoned, and forgotten sections of the ancient city. But finally, he heard a noise. The same rending of metal, but this time it was weak, faint. And getting fainter.

He was loosing his prey. And were he to loose his unseen opponent now, he might not get another chance. He ran like a madman, barely avoiding hitting the dust-coated, antique walls and avoiding the cracked pipes and metal.

Hallway after hallway, faster and faster and still no sight was the only thing that was running through his mind as he rounded yet another corridor in his single-sighted pursuit.

And he did not think of anything else until, before starting down another of the city's endless hallways, he felt a hard, sharp smash on the back of his head.

Jack fell, too exhausted to yell out for help or even in pain. Dropping his Pistol, he fell face first on the dust-lathered floor.

He could barely summon the strength to see through his blurring eyes something brownish with a white-blue hue standing over him.

But than, his fatigue and the pain from the sharp blow overtook him, and cast him into darkness, to see no more.

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OK than, I have noticed that I have six reviews, out of over nine hundred hits. Now, repetition by some of you I can understand and can account for some of those hits. But that is still astronomically few reviews per hit.

PLEEEEEEEAAAAASSSSEEEE! I need reviews to see how I am doing. Positive, Negative, constructive or flames, PLEASE TELL ME! I cannot read minds, so put in your thoughts, if only to tell me to go to hell.

I REALLY am That Desperate! PLEASE REVIEW!

Turtler


	7. Chapter 6: The Messenger

Chapter 6: The Messenger

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_'Feel's like my head was cleaved apart by a hot knife.'_ Was the first thought Jack had when he regained consciousness. It hurt to **think**, much less do anything else, and for a second Jack honestly thought he would simply try to get back to sleep. Than he remembered exactly what had been happening when he woke up.

He shot bolt up in bed, and with a quick look around, noticed he was back in his quarters, alone and in perfect quiet with nothing but the ocean waves battering themselves against the old amphibious station. He than slumped back into his bed, exhausted.

"Just another damned nightmare. I must be going insane." Jack said softly, in a way that was more like a thought that managed to slip through his lips than anything else.

**"Au Contraire, Jack O'Neill. You are far from mentally unstable."**

Jack's body that had lain back down in the cot immediately jumped up.

As he did, he saw the most alarming sight. A figure slipped through the door in absolute silence. Standing before him was a figure in what appeared to be old brown military garb, like the dead unknown he had seen countless times. But it was not the same person, as this… thing was of average height, and was of a far more slender build than the previous one, and with a dim whitish-blue light around him.

And when Jack examined this intruder more closely, he was agape.

This thing had reddish-brown hair and a moustache to match, but that was not the most alarming thing about him.

Splayed about his body, almost randomly, from foot to head, were a few dozen red wounds on him, all of them creating a bleeding stream of their own that slowly traveled down his body. Jack instantly recognized what they were: rifle shots.

And even worse was his eyes. They were pure, eerie white, with no iris or pupil to speak of. '_He shouldn't be able to see me'_ was Jack's only thought as he searched the desk for his gun hastily to counter this threat that was only six feet away.

But see he did.

**"Now, that is not necessary, now is that?" **said the apparition in plain English, as he stretched out one of his hands and pointed it towards Jack.

Jack suddenly found his body halt looking and was violently slammed back into the cot. He struggled to move, and to look away, but to no avail, as for some reason he could not look away from the horrific specter that was standing at the foot of his bed.

**"Now, that is better"** continued the ghoulish apparition. **"Were you by any chance looking for this?" **he said, holding out, to Jack's sheer horror, his own pistol, his only real means of defense. **"And also, no need to alarm the rest of them. This little chat is just between you and me."** He said, pocketing the pistol and restretching his arm out.

Jack felt a sudden unfamiliar weightlessness in the middle of his throat, and he tried to scream, or yell, or call for help, but though his lips moved, no sound escaped them.

**"Now, we may begin. You are alarmed. You are afraid. You have gone through several traumatic events and know not what to make of them. You have endured a chase now against what appears to be a figment of your imagination. Correct me if I am wrong."**

Jack was stunned again, '_He really can-'_

The figure gave a small, bitter laugh. **"You are half right. I CAN read your mind. But on the other half, the assumption, you are wrong. I am not what has been haunting you through the small hours of the past months. THAT is what I want to talk to you about."**

**"You think I am him? I can understand that you might think that, but trust me when I say that it is not true. You find me terrifying, horrific. But he is far worse, for had he gotten a hold of you, you would not have lived to see the dawning sun rise again over Atlantis, or any other place for that matter. And you came **_**VERY**_** close to falling into his trap."**

**"But first introductions are in order," **The phantom said as he picked up a glass on the table, looked it over, and than walked into the bathroom, where the sound of water running in the faucet informed him as to what the phantom was doing.

It was a respite, a chance to gather himself together and go over his options, but it did not last anywhere near long enough.

The Specter returned into the room with a single clear plastic glass of water, already getting smudged with bloody fingerprints, and began to drink out of it, seemingly oblivious to the red plasma that was dripping into the cup with every gulp.

Than he, it, whatever it was, it, after a particularly long gulp, moved the cup (now splotched with red) from his lips bloodied lips, and then took a deep breath which was more like a gasp. Than he continued.

**"Who am I, you ask?" **At this, the ghastly interloper's head made a slight but notable shift downwards. **"What I am is a martyr. You shall not find me in any church's scripture or Judaic text. Or any other religion, sect, or cult's documents or lore for that matter, but that does not change the fact that I am one. However, I was not crucified for my faith or burned for my beliefs. Indeed the reason I died has nothing to do with any religious beliefs at all."**

**"I died because I knew what was to happen, and I tried to prevent it. It is a long story, and an equally confusing one. However, it can be told later. But back on to the subject of your nightmares."**

**"The monster that you have been dueling in your dreams for the countless nights is a great, powerful, archaic evil."**

The creature than took another swig of water, ignoring the blood that spilled into the cup."

**"Yes, it is not pretty, but after a while, you get used to.. this when taking a drink."** The ghostly specter motioned to the now-quite bloody water glass.

**"But anyway, you are used to and quite adept at eliminating the mechanical insects and the serpent lords, and have learned much as to how to defeat those threats. However, you must cast that knowledge of their weaknesses and strengths aside; for this threat is by far of a… I have no idea how to put it, but the threat posed by him is of a **_**different **_**nature. Far different."**

At this, the creature finished off the water with a great swig.

**"Ah, but it is a long story, and I am out of water. Don't go anywhere. Not that you can, really."**

At this, the specter exited the room, and the sound of the sink running began. What first filtered through into the room was a loud scrubbing noise, than the sound of water being repeatedly filling up the glass and being poured out, and finally, with the last sound of filling, the sink's flow was shut of.

And at that, the specter walked back in, carrying a tidied up glass, the only hint as to its previous state being the sickening sight of bloody fingerprints.

And than, the otherworldly interloper took a strong swig, with water pouring out and red plasma inadvertently pouring in. The entire sight made Jack want to vomit, but he was hopeless to even do that, as his entire body felt like it had been restrained or simply shut down.

And than, to Jack's dismay, with a audible gasp, and a wipe over his now facial hair, the specter turned his milk-white eyes back to him.

**"Now where were we, oh yes. This beast, he, or does he deserve being called 'It' more? But nevertheless, this monster is far different than anything you, or any Taur'i has faced. He is not of any species you have fought. He has no claim to be a god, and toils not to make anyone think he is. However, his power is inconceivable to the charlatan-gods, who both envy and fear the rumors that circulate about what he has done, envy for that power, and fear that they could be next. For he has power that they know not of and lack the ability to grasp."**

**"Even know, you are wondering if you should be put in a madhouse for crying out loud, as you say, for you think we are all delusions, some fragments of a fevered mind. If you are to trust me with anything I say or have said tonight, know this: Whatever anyone says, whatever any test says, no matter what science says, no matter what you think, no matter how overwhelming the evidence to the contrary is, hear this now: YOU ARE NOT MAD! YOUR ARE NOT MAD! YOU ARE NOT MAD!"** He said, thrusting his fist at each exclamation, as if to add emphasis to the point.

**"You are not mad, for that is what he hopes you shall think yourself as. Know this, however. He has invested much time and energy into his move. He has invested more time than any one being should every be able to live through in his finishing coup. And in order to see that move come to fruitation, he must eliminate you. And for that, you must be on your guard, for he is a dangerous, calculating foe, and should you or anyone else fall victim to one of his many traps, you or that person will be irreversibly and utterly lost."**

**"You are going on a diplomatic expedition to the Furlings in three days, once the supplies are brought up, are you not?"**

Jack, had he been able to speak, would have said 'huh?' at the unexpected turn of topic.

However, the ghostly figure gave a low, mirthless laugh **"Ah, what a nasty web you have woven."** He said, seemingly to the room's air, leaving Jack only the more confused.

**"I shall have to put a dent in that, then-**

Turning deliberately towards Jack, he continued

**"-the rest will be up to you."**

Than, to Jack's horror, he finished off his glass, than walked towards the cot where he held Jack as a captive audience, putting his bloodied mug on the dressing cabinet, he sat down, and one of his gory hands grabbed Jack sharply by the neck.

**"Now listen closely, for I shall only say this once. Are you listening?"** With that final word, Jack felt some of his old control of his head return, and instinctively, he nodded once.

**"Good. Now pay close attention: over the timeless past months, he has been toying with you, been playing with you mind. Tonight was his first serious attempt to eliminate you, and had I not subdued you, you would have run right into him around the next corner as he took down pipes from a remote position, and had you done so, all the skills and ammunition in the world would not have saved you, or anyone else on this station. But he is clever, and he will try again. You know something he does not at this point, and that is that you have more time than he thinks you have, for his next plan will go, shall we say, **_**arwy**_**?"**

**"However, the grace period in which he will be surprised by this will be short, and know this: he knows about you. He knows everything about you. He knows everything about everyone else on this station. And you know **_**NOTHING**_** about him, and neither do I, or anyone else on our side of the lines. And he will attempt exploit that fact soon enough. You MUST BE ON YOUR GUARD, For he will show no mercy, give no quarter, and rest not until you and his **_**other**_** targets are destroyed."**

**"Yes, he has other targets, and each one of you must tread lightly, tread carefully, tread smartly; for he is clever, and time is against you. Be wary. He can strike from any quarter."**

**"But not all is bleak, for allies both new and old can come and reveal themselves from any quarter as well, and should you not use their help to its fullest, your cause shall be lost."**

**"As for myself, I know not what specific plans he is plotting, what cunning he devises, for my eyes cannot see past the walls of death. I can only ensure that you have a chance. It is up to you to grasp that chance."**

**"Do you understand?"**

Jack nodded, but to his surprise, the specter shook his raw, blood-coated white head.

**"No, no you do not. However, neither do I understand. But knowledge will come if you survive long enough for it to divulge itself. You have yet more questions. However, I have either have neither the knowledge or the time to answer them, and thus it is time to sleep."**

At this, the spirit raised his hand, and Jack felt himself be slammed back into the cot, but in what seemed like not one second later rebounded up and opened his eyes, breathing heavily in fright, but slumped back on his cot.

It was not the dead of night at all, but it was daybreak in the sunken city of the Ancients. Jack sighed into his pillow. He hated sleeping anymore, and he wondered if he should check out the local doctor (wasn't it a Scot named Beckett?) about some sleeping pills or something. But either way, he had to get up to help prepare for the expedition, sleep or not.

And with that, Jack began to get to bed, unconsciously looking to his right as he started to exit his cot, and than his breath caught in his throat.

Lying on his dressing cabinet in an innocent, simple way, was an unremarkable and innocuous large, clear drinking glass, standing there in a simple, unremarkable way.

Crusted with dried blood.

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So, how am I doing? Please review, as we ALL live for reviews, and I do need to know what I am doing, so PLEASE GIVE ME FEEDBACK! I BEG YOU ALL!

Turtler


	8. Chapter 7: Operation SOTHIDRM

Chapter 7: Operation SOTHIDRM

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Lt. Colonel Samantha Carter awoke slowly and peacefully from a sleep that was _anything_ but.

Not that she hand anything against that, mind you. 'At least in not _this_ _way'_; Sam could only smirk. 'After all, never can have too many dreams about one _very_ hot colonel. Err, I mean GENERAL (I swear, am I ever going to get that straight? Does it even matter?)'

But anyway, _wakie wakie, Sammie, time to get your butt out of bed, rise and shine!_ Her usual response to Dad when he said that was to roll over, taking her pillows with her, and lean her body over so that that part of her anatomy _was_ off the bed, and then go back to sleep. But, she had things to do, people to see, places to visit, and one highly irritating Canadian scientist to investigate.

Ah yes, that reminded her. It was time to launch Operation SOTHIDRM, or _**S**_cout _**O**_ut _**T**_he _**H**_ighly _**I**_rritating _**D**_octor _**R**_odney _**M**_cKay. Or should it be SOTHIDRMK for **S**cout **O**ut _**T**_he _**H**_ighly _**I**_rritating _**D**_octor _**R**_odney _**M**_c_**K**_ay?

Oh well, no matter. Either way, she had a Canadian PhD/Ladies Man to tail, and she might as well start on it.

And with that, Sam attempted to get out of the bed in a process that could be best described as a combination of sitting up, standing up, pushing, pulling, kicking her own butt, and attempting to throw herself onto the floor. Eventually, against all odds, she managed to get off the bed, and made a beeline for the shower.

'It might not be coffee, but it would tide her over until she got the actual thing. That, and it would clean up some embarrassing…. _'ahem;' _ _evidence_ from last night's, uhm, _festivities_. 'Yes, that was it, thought Sam, as she figured it was a suitable euphemism for having a startlingly hot and heavy wet dream about your CO.

Now, if she could only decide on the shower being hot or cold….

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Sam arrived in the mess hall a few hours later, after having finally showered, gotten dressed, and, having checked what time it was, and came in to the hustle and bustle that could only be from a military commissary at breakfast.

She noticed her target, and, after attempting to discreetly eat her 'meal,' if that is what you would call whatever road kill this was, she waited. When he got up to leave, she waited a few seconds, and than exited through the opposite door, and began to round around through a walkway that she knew would take her to the same hallway that McKay was using, if she could hurry.

Aha! Typical Rodney, moving as slow as damned molasses, was only about a quarter of the way through the hallway. So, discreetly, Sam turned the corner into the hallway, and than made a right turn, going the opposite way to Rodney.

When Sam, doing her best to appear disinterested, came close to Rodney walking the other way, she tested the situation, and said, inconspicuously

"Good morning Dr. McKay."

The response was short, unexpected, unusual, and went against all the knowledge and common she'd gained in reference to Rodney.

"'orning to you, too, Dr. Carter."

'Ok then. No hungry looks, no bad come-ons, no misaimed flirting. Ok. There are two possibilities here: a. Rodney is not Rodney and will have to call a red alert in to security, or B. He is not interested in me anymore because he is seeing someone else. And, since Ockham's Razor tells us that the simplest answer is most likely correct, she was about to call the marines out when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something. Something camouflaged.

"**McKay, you and I need to talk!**"

'Ouch,' Sam literally winced at the shout. 'Sounds like Rodney got somebody pissed off. Color me unsurprised.'

It took her slightly longer to register that the words came from a woman.

'Oh, this is gonna be good.'

"What is it **THIS TIME**?" came the extremely vehement response.

"Oh, you know **DAMNED WELL** what you did!" came the violently-spat retort. By now, Sam could see here clearly. She had the hair the color of brushfire, and was wearing the uniform of a marine based on-station. She was also wearing a look of rage that was definitively NOT part of said uniform.

"Oh **puhLEASE!** You were not complaining when you did essentially the same thing to me! You want to talk about that? Let's talk about THAT!" was the retaliation shot.

"The term 'apples and oranges' mean anything to you McKay? I would think so because of how smart you are. And we _know_ you are smart; because, after all, you don't miss an opportunity to remind us. Ever."

"Ok, than since I am _absolutely_ drooling-at-the-mouth retarded and stupid, never mind little, insignificant things like _PhDs_, _AMs_, and _AS_'s; of course; than I am _sure_ that you, _Mrs. Genius_, will be able to solve millennia-old text in dialects that most humans DO NOT KNOW EXISTS, be the scientific advisor for things that are so insanely complicated that Einstein probably-"

"So now you are saying you are smarter the Albert fricking **Einstein?** And just when I thought your ego co-"

"-ut. But, since I am a drooling maroon, I am _SURE_ you will be better. And in other news ladies and gentlemen, we predict heavy clouding and a light shower of radioactive Root Beer floa-"

"-ain, immature, self-cente-"

"-ugish, hypocritical-"

'_I think I should have brought some popcorn to this show…_'

"half-assed, elitist-"

"_Elite?_ Why thank you. At least I now know that those years in college were good for-"

"You KNOW perfectly well what 'elitist' means, McKay, and you also know perfectly well that it is not a compliment, if you ever take it seriously."

"You will forgive me, _Laura_, but I do know what it means, I just do not take it seriously when it comes from someone as biased as you."

'_Maybe it WOULD be a good idea to call out security after all…' _

"You have some nerve for a brainless sludge of-"

"You know, I will choose to take that as a compliment."

"Fuck you."

"You first."

"Right back at ya."

"You know perfectly well that I did not mean any offense the first time, and out of the goodness of my heart-"

"I am unsure which is more unlikely, that you have the former or the later-"

"-am willing to overlook your **THEFT** of mine, but I swear to god, if you so much as _THINK_ about Thinking about touching _ONE _of them, than the kid gloves are off, and I will neither show, nor give, nor accept any quarter."

"Oh, lookie here, little Rodney pretends he's a tough guy. If I was encumbered by your _'skills'_ I would be thinking real hard about that last one."

"Bite me."

"Firstoff, I have neither the wish nor the carelessness to bite you, as it would probably affect my health, and secondly, you first."

"Do your worst."

"I intend to."

"So do I."

"So be it."

And at that, they both stormed off in opposite directions, not even giving a passing glance towards the little niche were Sam had been standing with her arms up as far as she could get them, trying to be inconspicuous.

'_Well, that explains quite a bit as to Rodney's behavior as of late_,' thought Sam. '_I do believe I smelled some _ahem…_ Tension there. And not just of the crush-each-others-throats-in kind."'_

"Well, saves me some time, as I think I have the answer to the question I was wondering about."

'_Though I was rather looking forward to hacking McKay's computer. But oh well, omelets and eggs and all that.'_

Than it occurred to her; she DID need to get her gear in order for the expedition. Granted, it was in a few days, but you have to make sure that the ever-scheming yet ever-so-hot Colonel did not leave one of his infamous _backpack extras_ that the was known to drop in unsuspecting teammates' gear.

Ugh, she MEANT General.

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Any Reviews? Please?


	9. Chapter 8: The Lazy Hours

Chapter 8: The Lazy Hours

Dr. Elizabeth Weir was working.

That was what she had nailed to the message board almost every day, and this day was no exception.

Most people did not even bother looking for it anymore, as it was almost always there. Some days, it wasn't even bothered to be replaced, and the crew joked about painting it on to the board itself because "it's not like it would change anything." Quote unquote.

Nobody even went to check in with her on any regular basis, as she was beyond any doubt doing boring, monotonous work.

_'Though,_ _if they saw what I was doing for "work" today, they might think twice about avoiding it.' _Though Elizabeth as she held in one hand a remote and in her lap a rather large bowl of popcorn.

_'OK than, there is no question that this project has changed you, Dr. Weir. And not only the whole "enhanced leadership, access to knowledge nobody else has" thing.'_

Because, never, ever, in a hundred-trillion years, would she have thought about using office time to laze around watching **Desperate Housewives** while having an all-you-can-eat festival in popcorn before coming to Atlantis. In her previous life, or .B.A., as she called it. Back then, Elizabeth Weir was the one of the most out she was wholly dedicated to her job. Whatever it might have been at the time, from diplomat to lobbyer to anything else under the sun. She usually dedicated the lion's share of her time to her cause, and the remainder to dropping limply into bed.

Ok, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration. Sometimes she actually **slept**, **ate**, and **drank** once in a while.

Just not frequently enough to deserve mentioning.

Nope, her job was her life, and her life was her job, working pretty much nonstop all the time.

Than she transferred HERE. And her priorities changed.

She gained a decent respect for the armed forces (_it was nice to have them around when people were shooting/stabbing/slicing in your direction, and they were not bad people on the whole, like stop and kill that line of thought RIGHT NOW),_ learned things that most of humanity was blissfully ignorant of, and lived a life that, though difficult as hell, one could never say was boring (baring, of course, McKay's ranting. She was only human, after all.)

But it had also changed her from the Elizabeth Weir she had been in another way: she had become relaxed, and gotten a little bit more laid back. Yes, being shot at and threatened with death should probably have the exact_ reverse_ effect on people, but it had taught her a valuable lesson: life is just too damn short.

Having to haul Carson's ass back from the other side of the River Styx had driven that point home. Hard. And say what you will, but if you can get killed from an exploding tumor, you should be keeping your will up to date on a daily basis. Poor Carson now had to suffer through being seen as a bit of demigod by the new recruits now, and it drove him absolutely crazy.

Hence, for that reason among many, she had stopped to work 24/7. Another reason was that, while she had gotten into the habit of working every spare second, she had rapidly discovered that her line of work now included; in order of danger from least to greatest: keeping the city from falling apart around her, exploring the city, conducting off-world exploration/negotiation, finding a way to fight the Wraith and Genii (amongst others), and refereeing fights between Laura and Rodney. And needless to say, if she had to do THAT 24/7, well, she would save the Wraith and Genii some time and do herself in.

That, and she had no actual work to do, anyway. Preparations for the uber-important negotiations that the higher-ups SGC had their nuts in a bind over needed most of the energies of the city's staff, and since it was her job to do the negotiating, the trade deals, the general staff management, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera; she suddenly found herself temporarily out of action. And she had no intention of wasting that time.

And she MEANT it when she said nothing. There was only one administrative problem of any real significance, and that was something that, while certainly unpleasant, could be dealt with by the engineers.

'_An entire wing of piping collapsed all in one night. Unbelievable.'_ The maintenance she interviewed on her visit there had sworn up and down that they had done the nothing different from the efforts to restore, update, and bring up to code the piping there than they had done (an indeed continued to do) elsewhere.

Eventually, after all this, they began working on repairs. Personally, she thought that it could prove an ideal reason to double check the other parts of the myriad pumps, plumbing, and pipes that composed the veins and arteries of the city. It would NOT be good to have something go wrong in the piping when the vast majority of Atlantis had no direct route to the surface and fresh air.

Somehow, the SGC's 'Celebrity commander' General O'Neill slept through it all. How someone could sleep through a few thousand falling pipes was anyone's guess, but it was unimportant in the end.

And, with pretty much nothing to do, she decided to catch up on one of her long-neglected pastimes.

So, she managed to "arrange" for a few "extras" to have passage on the Daedalus, amongst the supplies in preparation for the expedition. And than, barricading herself in her room under the pretext of paperwork, she began to unwind.

Life was good. No Wraith attempts to go to the 'promised land' of abundant 'food' via the Atlantis Stargate, no Genii raids for around two months, and no recent (well, too recent) continuations of the infamous Cadman-McKay 'incidents' (for definition, Read: Nuclear Meltdown.)

However, just then, the dull thumping of boots on the floor alerted her to the fact that her joy might have been a _'little'_ premature. _'Good god, what have they done this time?'_ Elizabeth thought as she groaned while rapidly attempting to conceal the incriminating "evidence."

Normally, dull thumping boots would not have really bothered her, for dozens of soldiers, engineers, marines, and others passed by with the same regulation-issue boots. However, it was _how_ the boots were hitting the surface; namely hard, with longer pauses between steps than normal, and the fact that what sounded like a fist was traveling along with said boots, periodically hitting the wall.

Had this been any other situation, she might have thought to herself about how she had _definitively _spent too much time with John, Ronon, and Teyla if she were using their method of ID'ing someone though the sound they made traveling through the hallways of Atlantis.

However, this situation was not one of those, and Elizabeth had no choice but to turn of the TV, hide the remote and popcorn, pick up a pencil, begin to look as busy as possible, and stiffen her resolve.

For Hurricane Laura was upon her.

And, to what Elizabeth seemed like not more a second after she had safely concealed everything, Laura burst into the room with all the subtleness of a tornado in the Midwest, and angry as hell.

"Elizabeth, put away the remote and listen up!"

At this point, Elizabeth was questioning the wisdom of her hiding spots, and if she should come clean or try to hide it. She finally settled on the later.

"Remote? What are you talking about, Laura?" '_Damn, did that sound as unconvincing as I thought it did?'_

"Elizabeth, cut the crap. You might be able to fool any of the rest them. However, the rest of them did not exactly get paid in two bars of soap and one Snickers by the docking manager to write down all four seasons of Desperate Housewives as "mine detectors," a few boxes of popcorn as "Nitroglycerin," AND a DVD remote as a "C-4 detonator" so please don't even start to try."

Elizabeth groaned. She knew that more than two people had to be involved in the racket to sneak it past the ever-watchful eye of the Dock MPs; she had, after all, given the Dock Manager 4 packs of Wrigley's and 2 Oreos to make it happen. She just never had thought that they would bring in the City's demolition expert to smuggle them in.

Slowly, she took the popcorn bowl out from under her desk and the remote from behind her chair, and put them on her desk, and then but her hands up in a sign of surrender. Knowing Laura, she would find it funny. And if Laura was slightly amused by something, she would bite down softer. Which would leave Elizabeth with more of her head remaining.

And, sure enough, she saw Laura hold back a slight snicker, and then continued "Elizabeth, as much as I do not mind having the governess of Atlantis-" calling her by the sarcastic honorific the Atlantis staff had given her "surrendering to me, I don't want you to surrender, I want you to LISTEN!" Raising her voice at the end.

"Let me guess, you got into a fight with Rodney over those things…"

"YES, that brown-nosed bastard stole my stash of Lays!"

"That would be strange, because Rodney was in here quite recently telling me in between long periods of cussing that YOU had raided his stash of Butterfingers."

"That was AN ACCIDENT! I did not mean to do any harm, unlike that piggish, no-good slime!"

"I do believe that we already went over how you two were not supposed to get into each other's secret stashes, or am I mistaken?"

For a few seconds, Laura merely stood there, enraged. However, after a few seconds, she got her temper in check enough to respond: "Yes, but I forgot, and did it on **ACCIDENT**! Without Malicious intent! As opposed to Rodney's deliberate _theft_ when he KNEW it was not allowed! That arrogant, egotistical son of a b-"

"You won't get an argument from me on the description, but like it or not, you can not to kill him yet. We need him to do, well, whatever Rodney does."

"Then can I kill him after?"

At this, Elizabeth tried valiantly to prevent a snicker from escaping. She also failed miserably.

"Ok, but NOT until then." She finished, stressing the NOT. "So…"

"…We have a deal;" concluded Laura. "So, I'll just be oiling my gun…" she finished, letting it drop off, with a distinctly sinister and mischievous glint in her eye as she walked out.

'_Situation resolved, crisis defused, all in the day's work.'_ Finished Elizabeth as she took another handful of popcorn and resumed watching the various misadventures of the residents of Wisteria Lane.

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" I am tellin' you John, do you have ANY BLOODY IDEA WHATSOEVER what it is like to be seen as some DAMNED CIRCUS FREAK?"

The words cut through the otherwise empty infirmary with the sound of an extremely ticked-off Scotsman.

"Look, Carson, lighten up for christsakes! You have been acting so damned since we got you back!"

"That is because every bloody one of the newbies looks at me like I can turn H20 into fine Chardonnay and that I can part minor bodies of water by waving my hands at them! And that is the portion of them who do not think I made a pact with Satan! Let me tell you about those, John, they come in looking as though I am suddenly going to use my scalpel to crack their skulls or steal their eternal souls or…"

John knew that he had to cut him off. If he didn't, it would end up shaking the planet from one of the CMO's Infamous "10.9-on-the-ricter-scale rants." Carson was usually funny, good-natured, and of even temperament, Far moreso then most people he had met. But when he got angry…. Well, you did not like Carson Beckett when he was angry. And the situation with the new recruits was driving him in that direction quite often recently.

"Listen, I KNOW you are ticked off about them, Doc. However, that does NOT mean you have to take it out on us…"

"And normally I wouldn't but it's not like you help the situation any, John. I am tired of being gawked at like the Elephant Man. How do you expect me to perform complicated surgery when a quarter of my patients expect me to stab them in the brain and sell their souls to the devil for bloody Cracker Jacks?"

John could only shake his head. The Scotsman was definitively exaggerating now. But that did not mean he didn't have a point. He had seen the way that many of the newer contingent had reacted when they had found out on their own initiative that Carson had died previously. And Carson's reaction, well, it was the first time he heard Carson say 'aye' without it meaning 'yes.'

It was not a situation he would envy. That much he knew.

But that also did not mean it was a valid excuse to allow his work to collapse.

"Look, Doc, I know it bothers you, but you have to keep working. I will do what I can."

"John, what you are doing is NOT enough."

He did not yell it, like he did previously, but John noticed a distinct , unpleasant steel that entered to Scotch CMO's voice as he said it.

"Then what do you want me to do? Threaten them with time in the brig if they so much as think of you strange?"

A distinct sarcastic exhaustion played into John's voice. However much he liked Carson, he DID NOT need this.

"No, but I want you to tell them the exact circumstances of the events."

"You know very well I can't do that," came the counter. "Most of them lack that sort of clearance. Just because you work here does not mean you get a free pass to read every detail in the classifieds! I cannot do it and have no reason to do it, Carson."

"Oh, I can think of one good reason, John,: was the thickly-accented comeback, in a distinctly different, lighter tone. John knew what this meant: the ever-wily Scotsman had changed tactics. And John had been friends with Carson long enough to know that was usually not a good thing. "Oh yes, I can think of a _very_ good reason to do so."

"Well, the suspense is killing me, so out with it." After all, was it not better to know what Beckett was going to try to blackmail him with then to not?

"Just a little matter, you know, if you inform them about the true nature of my condition, I will see fit not to, shall we say, inform Elizabeth about my sudden discovery of several secret admirer letters that have your handwriting on them?"

John's face did an indescribable change that could best be summed up as halfway between a blanch and an evil eye. "You know perfectly well that I respect Elizabeth, but only as a friend and superior."

"Aye, you know that, and I know that, but does she?"

"I don't believe it. Even you would not go that far, Carson."

"Would I?" The medic's face was one of angelic innocence honed perfected.

Obviously, somebody had been taking lessons from McKay.

Nevertheless, the laughably false innocent face did tell him one thing: he certainly _would_ go that far. And that left him with one of two choices: Cave in and spill everything to the greenhorns as per Carson's demands, or kill Carson and dump his body over the side of the city.

And even from there he realized he only had one true choice. Thinking back on the many months and hardships they had suffered together, and how many times they had saved each others' lives, did he really think he could kill Carson over this? The answer came immediately and clearly:

'_Yes. However, I do not like the idea of facing down a few million Wraith stunners without the city's CMO alive and waiting with a well stocked emergency room. Even if he does drive me half to death when he isn't saving my life.'_

John groaned, mostly from his obvious imminent defeat, but also from the fact that he had spent enough time around Rodney that his thoughts were being sarcastic. He could see the glint of triumph in the Scotsman's eyes, and he knew that he had to say what came next, no matter how painful it would be.

"OK, fine, I surrender. You win. I'll gather them up next morning and tell them."

"Everything?"

"No, I am merely going to tell them how you sold your soul to the…." Then, noticing Carson's eyes giving him a death stare, "Yes, I will tell them EVERYTHING. Happy now?"

"No, but I will be if you keep your word, as it would save you a highly embarrassing report to Elizabeth's office."

"Ok, but just know, that this means war." That was his parting shot as he exited the infirmary, and the best one he could muster.

"Do your worst, John." Came the reply, with a distinctly playful look in Carson's eyes. "I'll be ready."

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"So, Hank, how much of this equipment is really necessary."

"Pretty much all of it, sir."

"Hank, drop the sir. I'm retired, remember?"

"If you say so, sir."

"You always were a smart aleck. Has anyone told you that recently?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, George. You, two or three _dozen_ times." After that, George could not hold it, and he broke into laughter. And it was not too long before the younger man joined in.

Eventually, both the General and the ex-General regained their composure long enough to resume heading to the destination they were going to.

"So, again, you are _sure_ we need _everything_?"

"Yes, George. The Furlings demanded that we positively identify ourselves as the "Tau'ri," and that plus the extra supplies to run the city, as well as the fact that this is a larger expedition then normal, and, well, you get the idea."

"And how long is the Daedalus' ETA?" He said as Hank opened the storage room door.

"About three days, counting today, by Caldwell's estimate."

Looking around the packed storage room, he noticed the nearly wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling stocks, and came upon one large swath of the room, about 1/6th of the total, that was completely clean.

"So, this is where they are going to stow the equipment once it arrives?"

"Yes."

At this, Hammond took some time to rest against the wall. The gods must be crazy, for the SGC was actually running _smoothly_. He half expected some system lord to pop his head out of a cargo container as he thought that, but for once everything was going to plan.

"So, two more days. It looks like all we can do is kick back and wait."

He tried his best to be calm. After all, there was nothing to worry about. But yet, nagging in his gut, was an old adage he had picked up from his old days in (and over) "The Swamp" with "Charlie."

And that was only fourteen words long, but summed his feelings up better then forty.

**When everything goes according to plan is when one should be most on guard.**

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_'A wise adage, General Hammond. And one you would do well to keep up.'_ Came the silent addition to the General's thoughts.

_' So, two days until the Tau'ri cruiser arrives with the supplies. I wonder how he would react if he knew that by then it will be far too late.'_

_'But even so, General Hammond, there is one thing you are incorrect on.'_ Continued the internal monologue of the waiting predator, his eyes basking the empty corridor he was in with an unholy red glow.

_'If you think the snake liars are your worst threat, then you should think again.'_


	10. Chapter 9: The First Encounter

Chapter 9: The First Encounter

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Sam did a final check up of her supplies, and, after making sure that her pack was unmolested by any of Jack's "little surprises," she made her way to the city's control room, and began the long game of waiting.

The supplies that Lorne and his crew were bringing in were critical for a number of reasons. Supplies had been, to put it generously, spread rather thin. To put it not-so-generously, the Atlantean supplies had been exhausted to a near-breaking point after a sudden attempt by massive attempt by the Genii to seize the city about two months ago. Fortunately, the Genii were not exactly known for modern tactics, and that human waves were shockingly ineffective. Still, their sheer number had left the city miserably ill-equipped as yet another Genii siege ran it's course. Fortunately, even one as stubborn and ruthless as the Genii chief, Koyla, had to realize that he had spent far too much blood and flesh for so little gain, and eventually backed off.

And THAT was the only thing that had saved the city, for the city had less then 1,000 rounds of small arms ammunition, 18 grenades, and not a single remaining Anti-Tank shell left. And in a city that housed roughly 5,000 scientists, engineers, aliens, and men and women in uniform, one can see the trouble. If Koyla had pressed the attack, the city would have fallen after using every single bullet and slowly but surely died out in hand to hand combat. And if by any chance Koyla had decided that he had regrouped enough to try again, or the Wraith decided it would be a good idea to try to reach the planet of "rich harvests" through the Atlantis gate again, then there would have been no stopping them for very long.

Thankfully, the half-month long siege had been followed by a surprisingly tranquil period of time. All off-world travel save for necessity was banned, as was the use of the firing range due to the fear of worsening the already strained supply. But at a time of when the most half-hearted of attacks would have dug all their graves, sheer, utter silence had followed, allowing an unheard of peace and quite, especially for an SGC unit. However, there was a general feeling of unease accompanying that quiet. The losses in personnel were still acutely felt, and the fact remained that the Homosexual Postal Workers' Union of Albania could probably put them out of commission in short order indeed (never mind any organized hostile force) still weighed heavily on everybody's minds.

After about two weeks of continuous double guard duty and half-rations, the expedition summoned up the courage to move part of the ammunition stocks on the mainland to the city's arsenal. Which meant that rather then nothing they had two time nothing. That was why the Daedalus had been dispatched along with her new escort, the _.U.S.S. Harbinger_ for an emergency restock. And, due to the suspension of Gate travel until the munitions were safe in their armory, the diplomatic meeting would have to wait. Fortunately, the Daedalus, however much in need of repair it was, was also in good hands, as she herself had been in charge of its inspection.

For the limited experience that the US (or anyone, for that matter) had in designing working long-distance space ships, this was a pretty damned good job. It could staff about 200 fully-equipped personnel, was capable of carrying about 30 tons of cargo (not counting the space that was traditionally taken up for voyage necessities), could make the trips faster then the Daedalus, and had enough firepower and armor to make any Gou'ld fleet think a few times over before committing enough resources necessary to destroy it.

In addition, it could outrace the elder vessel as well. It may have been it's inferior in terms in firepower and armor, but it could outpace the Daedalus almost anytime it wished. As a matter of fact, there had initially been a plan to scrap the Daedalus altogether and have the Harbinger take up the supply runs, though said movement was eventually stopped dead by the combined protests of Caldwell, Elizabeth, and herself.

To this day, she had difficulty understanding why she had disagreed with the attempt to switch the ships, but she had her gut feelings, and the fact that the crew of the Harbinger were about as raw as you can get made her doubt that they could cope with whatever calamity could befall one a galaxy away from home, whereas Caldwell and his men were seasoned veterans. And when your lifeline was the thickness of a limp noodle, you had to make sure that that noodle was made of the strongest stuff that could be found.

And, to be honest, she wondered if the "greenhorns" could handle it by themselves, especially in comparison to Caldwell's men.

However, the few Pod Jumpers the city had sent out to ascertain the status of the scheduled supply routes, and for the entire duration of their scouting missions they found, to quote one of the pilot's debriefing statements "absolutely nothing, not even a strange-looking asteroid." So, in other words, the situation, while not safe, was relatively stable.

So why was she worrying?

The diplomatic talks were big news, make no mistake about it. And, given that importance, unwelcome attention was almost certain to follow. The fact was that the conference was a juicy target for any hostile force that knew it was happening and was in a position to take advantage of it. The stiff air that filtered through the SGC about hostile movements in the Pegasus was, on one hand, a pleasant sign, as it could be taken that the Genii were too badly maimed by their failed attempt to take the city to do anything, that the Wraith were lying low for one reason or another, and that there were no roving Gou'ld in the region.

However, the chill that had taken up home in her spine and in her heart told her otherwise. While she had joined the Air Force primarily to further her scientific career, she had been soldiering on too long not to question things when all appeared tranquil. She knew as well as anybody that the deafening silence that came in from the scouts could vary well mask a buildup, a movement of forces, or even a sudden attack, and any of those would be bad news in the current situation.

There was also something else that was bothering her, and that she knew was irrational, but could not help. She felt that someone was always watching everything she did, and that, to be quite frank, scared the living crap out of her. She knew it was just a stupid feeling, but she could not overcome it.

However, just because she was going mental did not give her an excuse to slack off, and she eventually found her way into the communication center of Atlantis, where the routine message from the Daeldus was expected. As usual, the building was fraught with the climate of fearful anticipation that gripped the rest of the Platonic lost city of old. Everybody seemed to be waiting for something to happen.

Yes, she was probably over-analyzing the situation. _Again_. However, she could not help but feel the tension of the entire crew hinging on what would happen in the next few minutes. She felt the tension in the air, lying just slightly below the surface, like a patient shark, and how it held sway over every person in the room. Everyone was ticking down the seconds to see if the supplies they desperately needed would be delivered. Nevertheless, even though time seemed to slow down to a snail's pace, it seemed remarkably soon when the Communications Officer announced "We have picked up a signal from the Daeldus and the Harbinger on the Long-Wave Transmission, and they are now on radar, ma'am."

She had been on the verge of trying to answer, but than Elizabeth got there first and replied "Thank you Captain, now put him on the open channel." After a brief reply in the affirmative and the wait of a few seconds, she saw the Daeldus and the Harbinger appear on the city's radar screen, and something immediately struck her as not right.

The ships were supposed to be in an escort formation, but they were further apart than the usual distance for such a grouping. That was a few seconds before the speakers filled with the statement that would haunt her dreams for months to come.

"This is Colonel Caldwell of the USS Daeldus to anyone who can respond. We are under heavy attack and are requesting support! Mayday Mayday Mayday!"

**Even now, he found it difficult to come to grips with his choices. The difficulty of coping with the idea of dooming, for all intents killing with his own actions, a few hundred to save several hundred still shook him deeply. But he could not change the fact. The ambush would happen regardless of what he did. And this way, he could at least save the most important part of the fleet, its equipment, and to say the least its crew, rather than throw the entire deck down the trash compacter. **

**Sometimes life confronts one with impossible choices, he summarized, and, holding the controls with both hands and gazing his milk-white eyes at the scene unfolding before him, literally at his own command, he could only summarize it with a final addendum.**

**"But then again, so does death."**


End file.
